by Lark, Sarah
And Joe had long held on to a piece of Colin’s estate no one knew about: when the stud farm had been dissolved, the boy had saved the colorful, flashy sign that had hung above the stables: “Coltrane Station—Stud and Training Stables.”
It had not been easy to hold on to the massive object over the years. For ages, he had stashed it between his bed frame and mattress, then later in a barn. But now, its time had come once again. A painter was hired to freshen up the colors and replace “Coltrane” with “Fence.” Joe beamed when he secured it over the entrance to his new stables.
Rosie, on the other hand, paled when she saw it. Chloe Coltrane had always hated the flamboyant sign. When Bulldog asked what was wrong, Rosie haltingly told him a bit about the sign’s history.
But Bulldog was unconcerned. “I think it’s really rather handsome,” he said, earning a withering look from Rosie. “All that red and gold. It speaks to you. But I’ll have a much nicer sign made for you if you want. You just need to think of a good name.”
Rosie declined. The last thing she wanted was to draw too much attention to herself and her horses. Besides, she had been a bit of a mess since the Auckland Cup. Although Trotting Diamond’s mysterious illness had not flared back up since their return, the elegant mare had been transferred to the stables of Bulldog’s freight company and had quickly become the darling of the two- and four-legged crew. The stable hands treated her like a princess, the drivers stroked her clumsily and promised to bet on her, and the stallions among the giants that pulled Bulldog’s wagons whinnied and blubbered in love when she pranced past. Trotting Diamond seemed well pleased. However, the mare’s new lodgings meant that Rosie was forced to constantly commute between Christchurch and Addington. Bulldog’s house and freight stables lay two miles away from the racetrack.
Bulldog would gladly have spared her the trouble and offered to rent stables in Addington where all the horses trained by “Ross” Paisley could be lodged. But Rosie was hesitant. In the weeks since Auckland, she seemed to be hounded by bad luck. Spirit’s Dream had somehow injured his leg in his stall and now labored under a torn ligament. Another horse she trained, which had always held a trot before, had suddenly broken into a gallop in the last race and gone hopelessly out of control. Rosie could not explain it. And yet another got sick with colic just before an important race and could not start. Rosie could hardly open a new race stable with nothing but invalids and losers.
The squarely built freight baron had been begging Rosie for weeks to go out with him, but she was too shy for restaurants and hotels. And since she thought walks rather silly—she got plenty of exercise with the horses—Bulldog could only court her in the stables. Since the night before the races in Auckland, she no longer shied away from being alone with him. So, Bulldog strained to make picnicking together a ritual. His employees observed good-naturedly how he had a table set up and meals delivered from restaurants to wine and dine Rosie—with Diamond playing chaperone.
“But I won’t play waiter,” laughed the stable master, a patient, older man. “At most, a groomsman. Just take care you don’t have to set the bed up in the stables too.”
Still, he gladly pocketed the couple pounds with which Bulldog bought privacy. The stable master had an apartment next door and boasted that at night he could hear every cough his four-legged charges made. And as much as Bulldog otherwise welcomed that, he did not want anyone eavesdropping on his rendezvous with Rosie.
Two days after the first qualification races for the New Zealand Trotting Cup, however, it was not Rosie but Violet Coltrane who first appeared at Bulldog’s. He was in the process of preparing one of his legendary picnics for two. Bulldog recognized Rosie’s elegant older sister at once.
“Violet! You haven’t changed a bit! Oh, pardon me, no, I must say ‘Mrs. Coltrane’ now.”
Violet smiled. “Mr. Tibbs, I’m happy to see you again—or I hope, at least, that our reunion proves a happy one. You’ve done well for yourself in our new country. You didn’t stay a gold miner long?”
Bulldog grinned. “I think I understand what you’re asking, Mrs. Coltrane. Here’s the whole picture: I spent half a year in the goldfields, paid a few pounds for a mule, and since then, I’ve put every penny into my freight company. Now, I’ve got branches in Auckland and Wellington, Blenheim, Queenstown, and Christchurch. I’m well off, Mrs. Coltrane, so not to worry, Rosie’s in—oh God, I can’t believe it. I mean, if I understand the seriousness of your popping in here aright, then Rosie’s really hinted—oh God, and here I was thinking she might not know what I was after.”
“Mr. Tibbs,” Violet snapped, “my sister is not feebleminded. I’ve spent half my life trying to make people see that. But if you really are interested in her—”
Bulldog raised his hands. “Oh, Rosie’s clever,” he declared. “The cleverest woman I’ve ever known. She just knows horses better than people. A fabulous trainer and driver. Recently, she drove a cold-blooded team just for fun—and I tell you, Mrs. Coltrane, I’d send her straight off with a four-in-hand to Otago.” Pride shone in his eyes.
“Ah,” Violet said. “Then maybe I should sit.”
Bulldog pulled a chair out for her at the handsomely set table. “I do have a house, Mrs. Coltrane. This is just on account of Rosie, because she doesn’t like to go out. But she likes to eat, Rosie does. God, even as a kid she was always hungry. I liked her even back then, you know?”
“Of course, I remember. And that’s precisely what makes the matter dubious to me.”
“Dub—?” Bulldog frowned.
“It seems strange to me to the point of being unsettling,” Violet explained. “By the way, we don’t need to rush. Rosie’s still out at the racetrack, showing Trotting Diamond and all the facilities to my husband.”
Bulldog looked relieved. “I was starting to get worried. She’s usually never late. She’s got her very regular routines, Rosie does, very orderly.”
Violet knew that Rosie clung to routines. Change frightened her.
“Listen, Rosie was a little girl back then. You can’t have fallen in love with a little girl and then with the woman she has become twenty-five years later.”
Bulldog looked confused. “Why not? Though I grant you, little Rosie wasn’t as dear to me as grown Rosie is.” He sat down as well. “Not in the way a woman’s dear to a man. Back then, she reminded me of my little sister who died in London. And now, I don’t even remember London well. Just my sister’s sweet smile. She needed to be looked after, only, I was too young. Then, she was suddenly gone. The bobbies said a customer stabbed her, and then I was alone. But now I’ve found Rosie again. I can look after Rosie. And I’d like to do it, Mrs. Coltrane, if you’ll let me.”
To her astonishment, Violet saw tears in the eyes of the square-jawed man.
“You were never married before?”
Bulldog shook his head. “No. Moved around too much—had a girl here and there. You know how it was here. There weren’t many women, especially not any who’d look at a little nothing from London. Now, it’d be different. But I don’t want one who has that knowing look, d’you understand? One of them hoity-toity girls who’d look down on me. I’m sure they’re aright, but I’d be scared of them.”
Violet laughed. “Well, Rosie gets scared easily too.”
“I know. I know she does, Mrs. Coltrane. But she doesn’t need to be scared anymore. I’ll be very careful with her, I swear.” He held a paw out to Violet and waited with an innocent look in his eye until she hesitantly shook his hand. Then a huge smile broke across his puppy-dog face. “You know what, Mrs. Coltrane? I’ll send someone to the pub now and tell them to bring some extra food for you and your husband. And we can all break bread together and pretend we’re in one of your nice restaurants. Rosie’d like that.”
Violet smiled. “We’d be honored, Mr. Tibbs.”
“Call me Bulldog. Rosie always does. Ah, look now, here come Rosie and Trotting Diamond and your husband.”
“Call me Vi
olet. And this is Sean,” Violet said as Sean, a little green around the gills, stepped from the sulky. He had crammed himself in behind Rosie.
Rosie’s whole face shone. “She ran a new record,” she said gleefully, “despite the extra weight.”
Apparently, she’d had the horse trot from the racetrack all the way to Bulldog’s stables.
“She went monstrously fast,” confirmed Sean, “and she takes turns rather sharply. Apparently, I get a little motion sick.”
Bulldog grinned. “Well, to be a racer, you’ve got to be a real man’s man—like our Rosie. Wait a moment, Sean; I’ve got a beer for you. Fix you right up. Rosie, get Diamond settled for the night. I’ve invited Violet and Sean to join us for a real fine meal right here, like we’re in a restaurant.”
“But not the kind where you can get your forks confused, right?”
Bulldog shook his head. “Nonsense, Rosie, you know me. Violet, Sean, I hope you like fish-and-chips.”
Chapter 6
Juliet did not need more than a few days to uncover Atamarie’s ancestry. In fact, the truth offered itself up on her next visit to the Gold Mine Boutique. Although Patrick always groaned at the price, Juliet would not be denied. And she really did need a dress for the fast-approaching race weekend in Christchurch. And another for the post-race parties. It was bad enough she was being forced to attend the L’art au féminin events in her old things. Juliet slipped into a changing room with a dream in dark-red chiffon while Atamarie turned in front of a mirror out in the store. Juliet wondered where the little Maori got the money for these dresses—which, moreover, she hardly seemed to appreciate.
“It’s gorgeous, but this corset—I’ll hardly be able to eat anything,” she was complaining.
Juliet peeked around the curtain. The young woman exemplified the fashionable S-bend body shape in a delicate-green velvet dress.
“Now, don’t be like that,” said Kathleen. “I hardly needed to tighten it around that slender waist. You’re going to make me jealous.”
Claire Dunloe laughed. “There! Now you know how we all felt when you were her age, Kathleen Burton. Atamarie looks more like you every year. I was almost startled just now when she came out of the dressing room. In the wide dresses and with her hair long, you don’t notice it as much. But now—I still recall how we drank tea in the White Hart in Christchurch and everyone stared at you.”
“You’re exaggerating,” Kathleen said.
“I think I look like my mom,” Atamarie declared.
Juliet stepped out of the changing room. One look in the mirror convinced her that she still effortlessly surpassed little Atamarie. But Claire was right: there was a clear resemblance between Atamarie and Kathleen.
“So, do you want the dress, Atamie?” Kathleen asked. “Come on, you can’t go to concerts in outmoded fashion. You have a duty to the Gold Mine.”
“To advertise? Well, Mom won’t wear a corset. She said so.”
“She looks Maori, so people don’t expect it of her. But you’d stand out. Come with me. I’ll make the adjustments around the hips. Then you can take the dress home with you. Pardon me for a moment, Mrs. Drury. You look bewitching.”
Kathleen disappeared with Atamarie into the back room, and Juliet turned sourly toward Claire.
“Who decides which ladies get to advertise for you in free clothing? Is there a beauty contest I don’t know about?”
“You’d be the first we’d call on if we really needed advertisements,” Claire flattered. “But like all the better sort in Dunedin, you’re happy to pay for the honor of wearing our dresses, aren’t you?”
“And the girl?”
“Kathleen’s granddaughter,” Claire explained.
“Her granddaughter?” Juliet marveled. “But I thought Matariki’s husband was Maori?”
And Claire Dunloe guilelessly told Juliet about Matariki and then Chloe’s entanglement with Kathleen’s son Colin.
“And whatever happened to this Colin Coltrane?” Juliet asked casually.
“Kathleen hasn’t heard from him in an eternity. My husband’s theory is that he joined some army. He used to be a soldier, after all. Probably he’s long since dead.”
Juliet continued trying on clothes, ultimately choosing one evening dress and two afternoon dresses. She left the shop highly satisfied. Now she had quite a precise idea of where Colin Coltrane had been two years prior. She could hardly wait to confront Kevin.
“Please, Juliet, you have no idea how it was.”
Kevin had first reacted with shock, then grown angry, and finally resorted to pleading, which more than suited Juliet. She liked to see her lovers prostrate themselves a bit.
“What am I not understanding?” she asked, and ran her fingers sensuously across his neck, down to his collarbone, and along his chest. She gently forced him back into the pillow. Patrick had gone to a meeting with old friends from the Ministry of Agriculture, and Juliet had summoned Kevin to her hotel room. Kevin felt terrible about making love to her in his brother’s bed. On the other hand, it was much more comfortable than his office floor. “Do I not understand that your little Boer did it with Colin Coltrane?” Juliet’s finger described tiny, gentle circles on his skin. “It’s not hard to imagine. I’ve never met Heather’s brother, but when I look at his children—he must be rather good-looking.” Kevin opened his mouth but managed to keep himself from correcting her. Juliet already knew too much; she did not need to learn of Colin’s death too. “And seems also to have had some charm. The women here all seemed to have fallen for him. Matariki, Chloe—”
“Juliet, you’ve got the completely wrong idea.”
Kevin attempted to get up, but Juliet held him back. “Oh, I’ve got the right idea,” she cooed. “The only thing I don’t understand is why you gave the child your name. Why you have to drag that goose around and act as if you loved her.”
“You don’t understand anything. And I don’t intend to explain because it’s none of your business. We need to talk seriously. Not about me and Doortje, but about you and me. This has to stop, Juliet. You’re a remarkable woman, but it can’t go on. It’s time to accept that you’re married to Patrick, and I’m married to Doortje.”
“But she doesn’t make you happy.” Her hands wandered lower. “Kevin, your Doortje is and remains a South African goose. Maybe she used to be a fascinating battle-ax. You must have fallen in love with her for some reason, I suppose. But here, she’s just a farm girl—cute, but boring. Don’t try to deny it.”
“She’s my wife.”
Kevin shifted beneath Juliet’s skilled fingers.
“But that can be rectified,” whispered Juliet. “Come, Kevin, we’ve both made mistakes. Let’s correct them. You’ll send your Doortje back into the wilderness where she belongs, and I’ll separate from Patrick. It’ll be a little scandal, of course, when we announce that May’s yours. But in the end, everyone will agree that we’re made for each other. Patrick stepped in because you were gone. Very noble. But now, now, nature needs to take its course.”
She bent over him and let her lips follow her hands.
There would be no more talk of ending their relationship, at least not that day. And Juliet still had many ideas for how to employ her knowledge about Colin Coltrane.
Matariki Parekura Turei possessed the glorious ability not to let the ugliness and prejudice of her environment get to her. She had been that way even as a child: while Lizzie and Michael worried immensely about how their daughter would handle the arrogance of the little sheep baronesses in Otago Girls’ High School, Matariki breezed through all the hostility and teasing. When her birth father kidnapped her to the North Island, she did not let the fanaticism of the Hauhau movement impress her any more than the anti-Maori hatred in the town of Hamilton where she ended up stranded. After she had been kept prisoner there for a year by a Scottish couple, fanatical adherents to the Church of Scotland, she tried to hate all pakeha, but that quickly became too much of a strain. She embraced the spi
rit of Parihaka less for spiritual reasons and more because she felt comfortable in the Maori model village, and because the pragmatic pacifism of the leader, Te Whiti, appealed to her.
However, Matariki knew when a battle had been lost. When she sensed she was being threatened with jail, she fled Parihaka. Later, she worked with various women’s and Maori organizations to fight for the right to vote, and here, too, her resilience proved invaluable. Matariki was committed to suffrage, but the fanaticism of some members of the Temperance Union influenced her not at all—she liked to have a glass of wine at hand while drafting and sending dozens of petitions to stubborn, mean-spirited, or stupid politicians. Matariki never lost patience and remained persistent. That also helped with her work as a teacher after she had returned to Parihaka. With never-flagging enthusiasm, Matariki introduced the Maori children to both their culture and the culture of the pakeha. Even though she had never attended a college like Roberta and no one taught her pedagogy or technique or disciplining, Matariki was a born teacher.
All of these qualities made her a godsend for Doortje. She had been able to overcome technical social problems with relative ease thanks to Kathleen’s book of manners. But Doortje still struggled with Dunedin society’s cattiness, innuendos, and unwritten rules. Observation did not help here either, particularly as the people’s actions constantly diverged from their stated views.
“None of them even says a word to Nandi,” she explained to Matariki. “Everyone treats her like a Kaffir, no different than back home. But if you call her stupid or uncivilized, then they all get angry.”
“But Nandi isn’t stupid or uncivilized at all,” Matariki told her. “According to Patrick, she’s now read more books than probably half of these so-called ladies. It’s called hypocrisy, Doortje, or sanctimoniousness. People pretend to be open-minded, but they think and act completely differently. Don’t think we Maori don’t know what that’s like! Officially, we have the same rights as pakeha now. We vote and sit in Parliament. However, Kupe’s up in arms against a new law meant to take away our right to deal with our own land. Or, when it comes to women, the politicians fall all over themselves to praise us, but behind our backs, they’re convinced we don’t have any brains.”